title going home is not the same as coming back (victory and defeat)
prompt .004 Spain
pairing none, really.
summary Sergio's experiences with the national team have been new and old, victorious and bitter, but they are always Spain.
rating pg
notes i'm not sure whether or not Fernando played in that England game. i do know, however, that Iniesta scored the winning goal. basically what i'm trying to say is that i've tried to be as factually accurate as possible, and please don't throw things at me if i got something wrong. :]
2005
This is Spain, you think slowly as you walk onto the pitch. Your boots are tied a little too tightly but you can’t be bothered to fix them, there is too much adrenaline buzzing through your veins. You feel as if maybe, just maybe, you could fly right now. You, you are finally Spain.
You are Sergio Ramos. You are the youngest player to be called up in fifty years.
The facts stack up in your head and they make you nervous; really you are just a kid who still lives at home and has never properly learned to do his own laundry. You feel like you still belong with the U-19s, maybe, that you aren’t ready for this, for Spain.
You begin to jog alongside a few of the guys- it hits you suddenly that one day, probably soon, you will know these men, they will be your friends- and you think to yourself, how could you not be ready?
2006
You don’t live at home anymore, but that doesn’t stop you from feeling like a child.
This is the World Cup. This is Spain, more than anything else you’ve experienced. You bounce a little on the balls of your feet, eager for kick-off. Stepping onto the field, you touch your fingers to the grass, experimentally, before crossing yourself. The pitch is damp and for all that it is decidedly not Spanish, you know better. You know this is your time.
The early exist doesn’t disappoint you as much as it does the others. It is your first World Cup; you are still in the happy honeymoon phase, too blissful to be hurt by much. You do cry, though, and at first you think it’s just for posterity, because you are happy just to have played, but somewhere between swapping shirts and showering, the tears become real.
2007
As you slide down to tackle Iniesta, you realize two things. The first is that you are rapidly becoming friends with the midfielder. You stand up, adjust the orange practice jersey you are wearing over your jacket, and hold out a gloved hand to help him up. He grins at you and you are surprised to find yourself return the gesture, genuinely, even.
He plays for Barcelona.
Ah, you think, but he also plays for Spain.
The second thing you realize is that you- Spain- haven’t lost a game for at least six months.
You’ve also become friends, somewhat unexpectedly, with Fernando Torres, and as you’re walking off the pitch to a one-nil victory (Iniesta’s goal, you remember the goofy smile you had on your face as you jumped on him to celebrate) you sling an arm around his shoulder. He hadn’t played.
“Cold here, yeah? It’ll be good to get back to Madrid,” you hear yourself babble, looking for something to comfort him with.
He looks at you, then looks around at Old Trafford, then looks back at you. “Yeah,” he says heavily, “Good to get back to Madrid.”
You aren’t sure why he’s so unhappy- you are Spain. You just won another game. You frown, then pull him a little closer to you. You suddenly find it important to make him happy about this. “Come on, we’re celebrating.”
2008
You remember being nervous, just a half an hour ago, that Villa couldn’t play.
Now, as you watch Fernando, you aren’t nervous anymore. You jog further up the pitch, not thinking logically, only wanting to watch him take this shot. He hops gracefully over the keeper and the ball goes with him and it’s as if you’ve gone deaf, you can’t hear anything, even though you know the crowd must be screaming.
You start running towards him before you see that the ball has sailed into the goal, but it doesn’t matter. You feel bad for Lehmann for just one second, but that too doesn’t matter because someone’s turned the volume back up and you are screaming and yelling along with everyone else. You slide yourself next to Fernando, pressing your foreheads together. He is deliriously happy and so are you, so is Spain.
Everything seems more acute, right in this moment; the wet grass against your knees, the chanting of the Spanish fans, the tight press of your team in celebration.
An hour later, and you can really celebrate. You don’t remember pulling the Spain jersey off, but apparently you do. It’s a shame, you think absently, because you’d wanted to keep that. But you’re still wearing the Antonio Puerta shirt you’d made, because you’d wanted your friend to be a part of this. Because your friend was still a part of Spain. Because he deserved this every bit as much as you did.
There’s a Spanish flag tied around your waist and another one that you and Fernando are holding around your shoulders, and there’s a trophy that Iker’s raising proudly and you can’t help yourself, you reach out and touch it reverently. It is beautiful. It is yours. It is Spain’s.
You don’t remember how long you stand on the pitch celebrating, but all of a sudden you are back in Madrid and you are carrying that trophy through the capital and everyone is wearing red and gold. You can’t stop smiling, can’t stop singing.
You were wrong, you think to yourself, all those years ago when you first joined La Furia Roja. This, this is Spain.
2009
You are in shock. You are embarrassed to admit it, but you’ve forgotten how to lose. Since that friendly in England when you first realized it, you’d kept a running tally in your head of each international game. Each win, each tie. There were no losses in that tally. You weren’t the only one to do so; everyone did. Nobody talked about it, but everyone did.
You somehow can’t find it in yourself to be as gracious as you should be. You swap shirts, you shake hands. You look around the stadium again, and your heart is heavy with the knowledge that you will return here for the third place game instead of the final. Your heart is heavier with the knowledge that it’s your fault.
Andres tells you it isn’t, and for the sincerity in his eyes, you believe him for a minute. But once he turns away and goes to shake Onyewu’s hand, you go back to hating yourself. You aren’t sure whose shirt you’re holding as you walk off the pitch.
Fernando catches up with you and bumps your hip with his. “Chin up.”
You put your chin up and walk into the locker room and nobody blames you. Not outright, anyway, but you get the feeling that they aren’t blaming you, period. This is Spain, too, you think, maybe a little bitterly. You’d forgotten about this side of Spain, the side that took with it all the hurt and disappointment of an entire country. It had to come sometime, you’d known in your head. You knew you couldn’t keep riding the tidal waves of praise and victory without having to deal with defeat as well.
This is Spain, too.